Kalām
by vikung-fu
Summary: Retired now these many years, the alchemist, Ana Amari, reflects on the death of Jamison Junkenstein and asks of herself if she has made the right choices in life.


**Kalām**

She had her reasons, she must have done—otherwise, what had been the point? Yet for all this, the alchemist, old now beyond her years, had never understood why, in that final confrontation, the witch had chosen to reveal herself. Surely it would have made more sense to wait it out, to hold back until the gunslinger, the archer, swordsman and soldier, monk and Viking had satisfied themselves that the dragon had been felled, that Junkenstein had died, and _then_ revive them? There must have been a reason as to why she had shown herself, in all her unholy glory, in those final moments.

And yet Allah be praised that she had! For had such things not occurred as they did, then perhaps they all would have been locked into the same endless cycle, traversing the globe to Adlersbrunn yearly to fight the same hordes of foes over and over again.

Perhaps it had been overconfidence, the alchemist had seen that in many a man and woman alike, a belief that they were beyond judgement. But Allah sees all, she told herself once again, and the wicked did not go unpunished.

In her time, she had been a corsair, a privateer, she had traded blows with men of high breeding and low morals and opponents whom, in the end, she had regretted putting to rest. She had travelled the world and seen places as diverse as decedent Château Guillard in France to beauteous Hanamura in Japan, the cherry blossom sent rich in the air. In the port city of Hong Kong, she had seen the same injustices perpetuated by the British as in her homeland, and her eyes had stung with the unfairness of it all, the fury that people could turn away with such ease. She had raised her voice about this when in companionship of the soldier, whom she had known for many years, and the gunslinger, noble in his own way, and yet time after time, she found that Americans were often slow to recognise tyranny and even slower to oppose it when it was not on their doorstep.

She tried not to grow sour over such matters. The world was dreadful, evil men held far too much power, men who made such fools as Jamison Junkenstein seem as if they were but children. She paused in her considerations for a moment; Junkenstein's goals had been perverse, of that there was no doubt, and yet, save for his madness and the antagonism of that spiteful witch of the wilds, had he been a truly wicked man? In the end, he had craved life, he had yearned to create something from nothing, to turn back the tide of what, his own decay, his own downfall? Certainly, what with the witch's curse, he had achieved that, yet at what cost? And was not such the province of alchemy, after all? Did not she also fashion something from nothing?

She shook her head. It was not for her to judge. All things are the will of Allah, and, in the end, it was not to her that he would have to answer for the choices he made. To do evil is a decision made by both men and women, there is always a chance to turn away—and perhaps that was the danger in the thinking of men such as Junkenstein, perhaps he had not truly felt himself to be in the wrong, perhaps his actions had been born from a desire to do good? Better that, she felt, than indifference to the suffering of others or the love of gold.

Life is made of such tragedies, she thought sadly, and considered her own past, the life she had lived. Like Junkenstein, she had not always made the right choices—and yet, for all this, she had never faltered in her belief that where there was evil, it should be opposed, where there was injustice, she must make a stand; she had never faltered in her belief that the world needed more heroes.

She leant back in her chair, the upholstery creaking in the dim light of the candle, as she lifted her head from her desk, her pen still in hand, the diary open before her.

Be just, be honourable, it was right to stand for truth, for universal suffrage, to oppose the ambitions of wicked governments and sinister sorceresses. In the end, when she was called to account by Al Aziz, by the Almighty, the Self Sufficing, she would say that her skill had been small, her arts insignificant, but she had been proud of standing for that which she believed.

Against, the wall of the room, its shadow large, her old rifle rested, silent now these many years, its muzzle neither healing nor harming. She thought of the injustices perpetuated in places such as Hong Kong. Perhaps, there was more she could do, she thought, perhaps there were still those who required her aid.

With newfound determination, the alchemist, Ana Amari, rose from her chair and reached one more for her tools.


End file.
